


A Summer Wedding

by Yavannie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Arranged Marriage, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Loss of Virginity, May Contain Traces of Plot, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ser Jaime Lannister Being His Usual Insufferable Self, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Sansa_Sandor LJ Comment Fic Meme 6. the_moonmoth's prompt simply read <em>Arranged marriage</em>. Happy nameday Moony! </p><p> </p><p>  <em>This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Of all the hundreds of ways she had pictured her wedding day, this was not one of them.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Summer Wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_moonmoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/gifts).



> Betaed by the fantabulous dealbreaker19, with whom I've had many helpful conversations about everything from commas to cocks.

This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Of all the hundreds of ways she had pictured her wedding day, this was not one of them. There should have been courting beforehand. Shy glances across a hall, tying her favour about the arm of her betrothed ahead of a tourney, perhaps even a stolen kiss in a rose garden... 

“...all the Myrish lace we could rustle up at such short notice,” the voice of the seamstress pulled her out of her silly childhood recollections and into the present. “And some of these pearls are a little less even than they should be. My sincerest apologies, my lady, but–”

“It’s lovely, Helene. No maiden could ask for any finer.”

“Thank you, my lady. If you will excuse me, I will go see about the cloak.” Helene left, closing the door quietly behind her.

It _was_ lovely, Sansa thought as she watched her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was unfamiliar; shoulders hunched over, face pale, and eyes puffy and red from lack of sleep. _This is not how you want them to see you_. She straightened her back and raised her chin.

“Hold still, please, m’lady,” said the girl who was putting the final touches on her bodice.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hurt you by accident is all, m’lady. And blood stains don’t come out too easily either.”

“In a few hours, this dress will have seen a lot worse,” said Sansa.

The girl’s hands went still. “Mother have mercy on me,” she whispered. “I never meant to–”

“What’s your name?”

“Michaela, m’lady. Micca for short. Please forgive me, m’lady. Helene always complains about my big mouth and by the gods she has the right of it. I never should have – ”

The girl would not meet her gaze, so Sansa laid her hand on her shoulder. “Michaela, you’ve done nothing wrong. I trust you know what happens between a man and his wife on their wedding night? I am the same as any other bride.”

Michaela nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. Then she resumed her sewing, her hands shaking slightly. When the prick came, it was she who suffered it, not Sansa. With a hiss, she brought her finger to her mouth.

“Ever so sorry, m’lady,” she said. “I... I need to wait for the bleeding to stop before I go on.” She sounded almost close to tears.

“Whatever is the matter?” asked Sansa.

Michaela hesitated. “I just feel ever so bad for you, m’lady,” she said, quickly. “Pardon me, but I’m only saying what we’re all thinking. You seem such a gentle soul, m’lady, and to be matched with such... It ain’t fair. It just ain’t.”

For a second, Sansa felt almost angry with the girl. It was her wedding day after all. Any tears shed should be hers, yet here she was, comforting another. Still, she took Michaela’s hand and managed a smile. “Here’s what we will do,” she said. “You worry about the dress, and I will worry about the lord of Goldengrass Hall.”

“Right away, m’lady,” said Michaela, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry.”

 _Yes, you did_ , thought Sansa, then turned again to the mirror. All this work, the Queen’s own seamstress slaving night and day, servants scouring the market stalls for the finest silks, and for what? Come evening, the gown would be in tatters. _This was not the way it was supposed to happen_.

 

The sun was glaring down on Ashenfield, the air barely stirred by wind. It was the hottest day of the summer so far, and there was not a cloud as far as the eye could see. The ceremony was to be held out of doors, by the Brightwater Pools, and Sansa was almost regretting it now. By one of the sparkling ponds, a weirwood had sprung forth - the first sapling to take root this far south after the Long Night - and while it still barely stood three foot tall, it would suffice. Despite his stay at the Quiet Isle, her husband-to-be claimed he did not hold any gods, so the choice of location had fallen to her. The matter of the feast, however, had not been entrusted to either of them.

“Do not think for a second that you will escape a proper bedding,” Ser Jaime Lannister had said with a smirk, and she had felt herself blanch at the thought, serving only to widen that grin of his.

She was grateful it was not him, but Jon who led her down the petal-strewn path to where Maester Samwell was waiting with the man who would be her husband. Her cousin’s arm was a rock in the storm that raged in her thoughts, and she clung to it almost desperately.

“You can still say no,” he said in a barely audible whisper as the crowds turned to look at them. Their faces were a blur, and the hushed chatter that rose was little but a faint, faraway murmur. 

“No,” she said, all while smiling and nodding. “I made my choice, and I will stand by it.”

Before she knew it, he was planting a quick kiss on her cheek before leaving her to face her fate alone. She dared not look at her betrothed, so instead fixed her eyes on the heavy-set man in front of her. Maester Samwell looked almost as nervous as she felt, dabbing a cloth at his brow in the sweltering heat. She managed to focus for just long enough to repeat the vows, and she breathed a little sigh of relief when she heard the man next to her do the same in a monotonous rasp. Then, for the first time in five years, she turned to look upon Sandor Clegane. 

 _He is not that old_ , she thought irrationally. His hair was still black and cut recently, she could see, and he was clean shaven. Perhaps he had refused to wear finery, or perhaps he did not own any, but he was in his light armour. There was even a sword at his side. 

“The cloaks,” said Maester Samwell then, voice cracking slightly, but she barely heard the words. 

Lord Clegane’s face was serious as he fumbled with the pin that fastened her maiden’s cloak. She lifted her chin a bit, and his eyes flickered ever so briefly to hers. Her threadbare grey cloak was exchanged for one in yellow and black, brand new and bright.

“And the... the...” the Maester stammered.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” she broke in, her own voice surprisingly steady, “and take you for my lord and husband.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my wife and– lady and wife,” he said.

There was hesitation and a question in his eyes, so she gave a small nod and leaned towards him, and then he bent down and quickly pressed his lips to hers. It was only when he moved away again that she realised how hard her heart was pounding. 

 

The palace was as bright and blinding as snow in the sunshine, the white marble as of yet untouched by the tooth of time. Come sundown, it would be awash with reds and yellows. _Fire and blood_ , thought Sansa. The Queen was not at court presently, and the wedding feast was to be held in the Great Hall. 

She sat at the high table on the dais, her husband to her right, and Jon’s empty seat to her left. Her cousin had excused himself early on, and she could see him further down the Hall, speaking to the Maester. She looked longingly to the table where Jeyne and Eleyna Westerling were laughing together with Patrek Mallister and Lewys Piper, but tonight she would not share in their gossip. 

The feast was modest, only fifteen courses, but she needed hardly even glance at them to send her stomach roiling. She waved away one dish after the other and squirmed in her seat, trying to surreptitiously adjust her gown. She felt as though she was choking, and she grabbed the Volantene fan on the table, unfolded it and flicked it a few times. It was no use. She thought she could feel the room spinning.

“You ought to eat something.”

She turned in surprise to her lord husband. His plate was filled with various choice meats, but she could tell he was not eating much himself.

“Thank you, my lord, but I can’t manage another bite.”

“You haven’t eaten at all,” he said and snatched a strange red fruit from the platter in front of them. With his dagger, he deftly cut away the peel and offered her a slice. She could hardly refuse him in front of everyone, so she smiled weakly and took a bite. It was sweet and tart and unlike anything she had tasted before.

“What is it?” she asked and found herself wanting more.

“I don’t know the name,” he said, already cutting her a second piece. “Something the Queen took a liking to in Essos.”

She ate the rest of the fruit in silence and afterwards felt much better. “Thank you,” she said.

“It wouldn’t do having you faint tonight, little bird.”

At that, her breath caught in her throat, and she grasped the cup in front of her, taking a big gulp of wine.

 

She danced awkwardly with her husband, then with her uncle Edmure and with Jon, and even with young Rickon. Then she danced with Lord Davos Seaworth, and although his steps were clumsy, his words were gentle.

“Marriage has been a blessing to me, Lady Sansa,” he said. “The gods gave me seven sons, and three of them still live. That is more than most men can say these days. You look radiant today, my lady. The very image of the Maiden. I’ve seen no bride more beautiful since the day I myself was wedded.”

Sansa couldn’t help but blush. “How is Lady Marya?” she asked.

“She’s well, my lady. She sends her best wishes.”

“You are a lucky man, Lord Davos.”

“That I am,” said Lord Davos with a smile. “And so is Lord Clegane, I believe.”

Ser Jaime Lannister was an excellent dancer, and his eyes shone with mirth as he confidently led her around the floor of the Great Hall, and in spite of everything she soon felt her cheeks flush and a smile tug at her lips.

"Admit that you are sorry now that I am still Ser Jaime of the Queensguard and not Lord of the Rock," he said.

"Mayhaps,” she said. “Are _you_ , ser?"

He laughed at that. Then, he turned serious. "He is not a bad man," he said. "He may look fearsome, but there are many men worse than Sandor Clegane."

"I know."

"Yes. So you do." His eyes twinkled again, and when he next spoke, his voice was loud enough to be heard over the music. "And now that you are wedded, it's high time that you are bedded! A BEDDING! A BEDDING! WE WILL HAVE A BEDDING!" He swept her off the floor and threw her over his shoulder.

She knew that any effort to escape would be fruitless, so she tried to smile and not yelp too loudly as she felt unseen hands groping her, tugging at her skirts. Soon she was hoisted into the air amid drunken cheers, and she heard the ripping of cloth.

"I hope your old gods blessed you with an ample sheath, my lady," she heard the voice of Ser Josmyn Peckledon from somewhere beneath her. "I'll wager your second husband's sword is larger than your first!"

There were roars of laughter, and Sansa dutifully laughed along. Another rip was heard, and she felt the air on her bare legs, making the hairs there prickle and stand on end.

"My word," said someone else. "Clegane will be breaking his fast on peaches on the morrow."

"On the morrow? I doubt he'll wait that long to have a bite!" 

She felt a rough pinch on her bottom and more laughter followed. The lewd japes and drunken roars continued, and she was soon clutching at the remnants of her bodice and her smallclothes, desperately trying to protect her modesty. As the last of her skirts were torn off, she felt herself being lowered down, and suddenly she was in Ser Jaime's arms. He was still smiling, but something about the way he held her made the others stay back.

Already they were at the door to the chamber that had been prepared, and Ser Jaime kicked it open and then gently set her down.

“Your husband won’t be long,” he said, looking over his shoulder, and true enough, from down the hallway came high-pitched laughter and shrieks. 

She couldn’t help but stare as Sandor strode towards her, followed by a crowd of women, young and old, tugging at his breeches. They were thankfully still intact, but his armour and tunic were already long gone, and she knew he must have been accommodating to their undressing him. His bare arm brushed against her shoulder and they were shoved roughly through the door before it was pulled shut with a slam. Quickly, Sandor moved to bar it, and once that was done, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

A night dress was hanging from a hook beside the door, and Sandor tossed it to her, taking great care not to look directly at her. She slipped it over her head and then went to him. When he turned towards her, he was frowning.

“You have some explaining to do, little bird,” he said quietly.

“I...” she began, but then came a pounding on the door, followed by shouts of, “ _Bed her! Bed her!_ ”

“Come,” said Sandor as he grabbed her by the arm and led her towards the bed. “They’ll be listening, so we had better give them what they want.”

Her heart was hammering at her throat as she climbed up on the high featherbed. This was an unexpected turn of events. She began pulling at the hem of the night gown, but he stayed her hands with his.

“No,” he said. Then he leaned forward on the mattress, pushing down on it roughly. The wooden frame of the bed gave an audible creak. “Good,” he muttered, then grunted loudly. Outside the door, a cheer rose.

Sansa watched in shock as he once more shoved his hands down on the bed, followed by another loud grunt.

“Make some noise, girl,” he said under his breath before letting out another most uncouth sound.

Blushing furiously, she cleared her throat and then moaned softly.

“Not like that,” Sandor said. “Do you think a bride enjoys herself on her wedding night? Think again, little bird.” He made the bed creak once more.

She attempted a pained wail, and he nodded his approval. Watching in fascination as he increased the pace of his thumping, she tried to follow his lead when wincing until he suddenly let out a long, loud groan and then went quiet. “ _Show us the sheets!_ ” someone shouted from outside. “ _The sheets! The sheets!_ ” chanted others.

“You can have them in the morning,” said Sandor in a loud voice. “We are not done with them yet.”

At that there was laughter and cheering and some more pounding at the door, until at last they grew bored and left, presumably to continue drinking and feasting. Sandor sat on the bed with a sigh, his broad back turned to her. Tentatively, she reached out for him.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“This is why, is it not?” he said, not turning around.

“What do you mean?”

“You had the choice of any number of lords and knights in the West, great and small, yet there was one you knew would leave you alone on your wedding night.”

She cringed inwardly. “No,” she said and edged forward until she was sitting next to him. “No, you are wrong. And you accepted of your own free will, did you not?”

He stood abruptly. “ _Accepted_ , yes. What else could I do? Don’t tell me there’s not a good reason why you’re glad to have me here in place of Marq Piper or Addam Marbrand. Well, little bird. Sing it true.”

“My reasons are selfish, that much I admit. I wish this could have happened another way, that I might have spoken to you before–”

“Yes, you bloody well should have.” He looked so angry, stooping over her, his eyes as dark as an autumn storm.

She rose. “I missed you, Sandor. That is the truth of it. I thought of you often enough in the Vale, and then you came for me, just as I had hoped. Not a day has gone by since that you have not been in my thoughts.”

He glanced away, and she wondered if he was thinking about the kiss they had shared on the day before they reached Winterfell, that one kiss which had lingered with her all through the Long Night. The disappointment she had felt when he had not stopped with Ser Jaime on the way back south from the Wall had known no bounds. “You were fifteen years old, girl, and you were in love with the thought of being rescued,” he said. “Perhaps you still are.”

“I am twenty now, and hardly a girl. I had a chance to take what I wanted, and I took it. I had hoped...” her voice trailed off at the sight of his frown deepening.

“Don’t lie to me. I hate liars, and you’re no better at it now than you were five years ago.”

She bunched her hands into fists in frustration. “It would seem I am even worse at telling the truth, or else you would believe me.”

He stood in silence for a long while, grinding his teeth. “Now what,” he said finally. “You will come back to Goldengrass and live there as my wife?” He snorted.

“If it please you. My lord,” she added. 

“Please me?”

“Yes. It would please me to please you, my lord.”

“Duty and honour. Those are the Tully words, are they not?”

“Family, duty, honour,” she said.

“I’m sure you will make a most dutiful wife,” he muttered.

She took a step towards him. “It would please _me_ to please you. My lord.”

For several long seconds they stood like that, terribly close but without touching. She could smell him, smell his skin where it had been warmed by the sun, smell the salt of his sweat. As he bent down, she quickly wet her lips with her tongue. He froze for a second, giving her an almost amused look, then kissed her. Of the three they had shared, this was the best, she thought.

“Did that please you?” he asked with a smirk when he drew back again.

“It did.”

His eyes darkened again and he shook his head. “No.”

She put her hands on his sides lightly, trailing her fingers over his skin, feeling the muscles tense under her touch. “Yes,” she said.

He cursed softly, then grasped her neck, and kissed her again. This time he did not pull away, but instead kept his face close to hers, breathing her air, touching her cheek with a calloused thumb. They kissed lightly, again and again, and emboldened she brushed her tongue against his lower lip. He groaned quietly, making her stomach jolt. _How can each new kiss be better than the last_ , she wondered as she felt him part his lips, letting their tongues meet. The intimacy was overwhelming, and she briefly panicked as she realised she did not know the first thing about kissing, but the thrill of exploration was irresistible. He tasted a little of wine and something else, something tangy and enticing. She worried for a moment that she was doing it all wrong, but then he made a noise that suggested he was enjoying himself too, and her heart swelled in her chest. Now he ran his hands down her back, pausing slightly as he felt the stiff corset under the night gown. 

“Did you think to sleep in all this?” he said.

“You handed me this,” she reminded him, tugging at the sleeve of the night dress.

“An honest mistake,” he said before kissing her again.

“Will you undress me, my lord?”

“I might if it’ll stop you calling me your lord.”

“You are my husband, and a lord at that.”

“A proper wedding and a mummer’s bedding,” he said, pulling her closer until she was pressed against his chest, firm and warm and strong. How she had longed for this, she realised suddenly. To be held and feel wanted... and to want.

“There is still time,” she said, stepped back, and pulled the night gown off.

Sandor ran his fingers through the hair on the unscarred side of his scalp and with a forceful sigh turned around, facing away from her. She glanced down on herself. Yes, the remains of her wedding gown were a disaster, the lace and embroidery of the bodice coming loose, and the skirts all but gone. Her husband turned back to her, shaking his head.

“I must look terrible,” she said and gave a little laugh.

“No, you look...” He frowned. “Did they hurt you?”

“No!” she said hurriedly. “No. Ser Jaime was very gentle, and the rest...”

“Good,” he said, shoulders sinking as he relaxed. Glancing down at her he reached up his hand, hesitated for a second, then gently touched the tops of her breasts, pushed up by the corset. Sansa felt something stir deep in her belly and further down between her legs, causing her to make a strangled noise. He let out a shuddering breath and shook his head again. She let a finger trace the ridge at his hip to where it disappeared beneath the lining of his breeches, earning her a low moan. As she let her gaze drop even lower, she saw distinct outlines of something that made her heart skip a beat. A flush began creeping up her neck and she turned around, letting out a slow sigh. 

“Help me with the laces,” she said.

He pulled her hair aside and then paused. “Little bird,” he murmured against the crown of her head.

“Yes?”

He bent down to kiss her shoulder, the light touch and his hot breath sending shivers down her back and through her thighs. “Nothing,” he said, then began to untie the laces of the ruined wedding gown. A few seconds later he stopped. “Hm. There’s another...”

“The corset,” she said as the bodice and the last few scraps that remained of her skirts dropped to the floor. She was as good as naked now, having only her smallclothes and the tightly laced undergarment to cover her.

He ran his hands over it, his touch a blunt, distant sensation through the stiff bone-and-cloth garment. “How can you breathe in this?” he asked, edging a finger in between the laces and the small of her back.

She smiled to herself. “With some difficulty, I admit.”

“Do you always wear such?”

“No. Hardly ever.”

She felt him bend down. “Hold still,” he said then, and she gasped and froze as the ties snapped, one after the other in rapid succession. Just in time, she grabbed hold of the front of it to keep it from slipping down. She turned around to see him sheathing a dagger in his boot. For a second she simply stared at him, and he glanced up at her, grinning at her shock. As he rose again to his full height, she watched his lean, muscled chest, and if she had not been busy clutching at the ruined corset she would have been tempted to bury her fingers in the coarse hair that grew there. He pulled her into an embrace, and she was forced to let go of her flimsy shield. 

Looking down on it, trapped between their bodies, Sandor chuckled. “Did you not mean to take it off?”

“I did, but perhaps–”

He stepped back, and the corset fell away. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands and instead stood straight and proud to let him look. His face was unreadable, but she could see his eyes roaming her body. Then he stepped towards her, hands on her arms, gently forcing her back until her thighs bumped against the high bed. He kept pushing until she sat down and fell back onto the mattress. Edging her knees apart with his, he bent over her until his hair trailed over her shoulders as he kissed her hungrily, his tongue pushing her lips apart.

Some instinct made her raise her leg and press her knee against his hip, urging him to move closer. With a deep moan into her mouth he pushed against her, and she felt his hard length through his breeches and her smallclothes. Something surged through her and she felt cold, then almost unbearably hot. 

“Gods,” she whispered, digging her nails into his back.

She had long known what happened between men and women, how children were made, but she had never thought that the urge to do it could ever be so strong. She knew what pleasure meant. Yes, she had taken it herself many a night in her bed in Winterfell. She had thought of him, and of this, but the fantasies had always been hazy and indistinct, nothing as real as what was grinding against her in slow, deliberate strokes. 

It felt so good, his body weighing down on her, the rough sensation of him between her legs. Bucking her hips up she met him, increasing the pressure until it almost became too much, yet it was somehow not enough. She wanted to be closer to that hardness. Sandor was propped up on his elbows, his head resting next to hers, but when she let a hand slip between them, unable to resist the temptation to feel him, he snapped his head up and raised himself on one arm to look at her. He sucked in a breath as her fingers found his manhood, and she pushed her hand down further, tracing it through the rough cloth. There was dampness there that she had not expected, and when she realised that her smallclothes were soaked, she gave a little gasp.

Sandor frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said and quickly pulled her hand away.

He was not so easily fooled, and she winced quietly as he reached down, stroking her stomach, slipping his fingertips underneath the lining of the last flimsy piece of clothing she wore. She bit her lip nervously, and suddenly his eyes went wide as he brushed his fingers over the fine hair, feeling the wetness there.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, embarrassed beyond belief at the way her body behaved. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, you shouldn’t be sorry. Far from it. Sansa...” The last word was but a whisper against her hair as he bent down to trail kisses down her neck and shoulder.

 _Perhaps it is a good thing then_ , she thought. He moved his hand further down, and a gasp escaped her as he let a finger slide down her folds.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. His breathing was coming heavy now, and she knew what he meant.

“I’ve been told it always hurts the first time,” she said. “We are wedded. It is as it should be.”

“The Others take me,” he swore, then stood up, and scrambled out of his breeches. 

She raised her head a little and caught a glimpse of his manhood. _Gods be good_ , she thought and let her head fall back onto the bed. He fumbled with the ties to her smallclothes, then cursed again and yanked them down over her hips instead. She arched back to help him, and once she was rid of them, she edged backwards to give him more space.

He climbed back up and once more ground into her, but this time there was nothing between them, no cloth to dull the sensation, and she couldn’t help but let out a moan as his hot length slid over her mound. Sandor was making noises as well, barely suppressed groans and grunts, and they were nothing like when he had been pretending earlier. 

He stayed himself a moment, kissed her and looked her in the eyes. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

With the help of his hand, he pushed his manhood between her soft folds, fumbling and probing for a few seconds before he found the place, and she felt him slide in an inch or two. Her body jerked in surprise, and he stopped moving. He carefully removed his hand, rested his weight on his arms and looked at her with concern.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Don’t move yet.”

She braced herself, then pushed up against him, edging him deeper in. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose before letting out a slow breath. So far, it was much easier than she would have thought. The sensation was tight, yes, but hardly unbearable, hardly– She gasped. Suddenly she could push no further and she shrunk back a little from a sudden spike of pain.

“Is that..?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, his voice strained.

“Have you... before? With a maiden?”

He shook his head. “No.”

How much would it hurt? What would the pain be like? Would it be sharp, like the sting of a bee, or dull and hot, like her monthly ordeal? _It won’t hurt any less no matter how much I think on it_.

“Do it,” she said, and with a grunt he pushed through her maidenhead in one swift stroke. Her legs tensed as the pain shot through her, and then she tasted blood. She had bitten her tongue, and the unexpected twinge momentarily took her mind off the searing sensation between her legs. Sandor’s body seemed to shiver, but he stayed still, letting her adjust to him. A minute later the discomfort had been reduced to a dull aching, and beneath that was her desire, a steady pounding that made her want to grind against him. Carefully, she lifted her hips until he was sheathed fully inside her. He sighed and groaned, but it seemed to fall to her to move. She tilted her body to let him slide out a little, then pushed up again.

“No,” said Sandor suddenly and then lowered himself down onto her chest, drawing several shuddering breaths against her neck. 

“Are you all right?” she asked, afraid that he was in pain as well.

He nodded, then drew one more deep breath and carefully heaved himself up onto his arms again, looking down on her. She moved her hips once more, this time a little faster, pushing back against him a little harder.

A look of panic flashed across his face. “No!” he said, and the word merged into a long, drawn-out groan as his body tensed and shook.  She thought she could feel him twitching inside her, and then he ground against her again and again, seemingly unable to help himself. A few moments later, he let his head slump down on her shoulder, and for a while he laid there, panting heavily. She felt his manhood grow limp, and as he rolled off her onto his back, she realised it was over. It had been quicker even than their mockery of a bedding earlier, she thought, not without a certain sadness. Suddenly she felt ashamed. It had not hurt as much as she had thought it would, and she knew that her disappointment was irrational. 

She sat up and watched Sandor. His breathing was still uneven, and his arm was flung across his face. Then she felt something trickling down between her legs, something that was not just her own dampness, and she rose quickly to move into the adjoining room to wash. There was a little blood, but she suspected that the covers of the bed were still clean. His seed smelled strange, and it was difficult to rinse from her thighs. She grabbed a cloth to clean herself with, and when she rubbed it between her legs, the pounding, unresolved desire returned. For a moment she thought to deal with it there and then, but she was afraid he might come in and see her. Instead, she rinsed the cloth out, dried herself with a towel and returned to the bedchamber. Sandor was waiting beyond the door, and he avoided her gaze as he let her pass before going into the bath.

With a little sigh, she went about blowing out the candles and extinguishing the lamps that lit the room. Once she had done so, she went to stand by the window. It was open, the balmy night air no cooler than that inside, and the warm breeze on her skin felt good. Beneath her, she could see the Burnt Gardens, lit by the glow of a thousand Dragon’s Breath, and beyond that the twinkling lights of Ashenfield town, mirroring the starry night sky above. She felt a light hand on her shoulder, and she leaned her head back against Sandor’s chest. They stood like that for a while, listening to the distant sounds from the wedding feast, music and snatches of loud laughter drifting on the wind. There came a sharp crash, as if from glass breaking, then a shriek followed by more laughter.

“They are having a good time,” Sansa said, amused.

Sandor did not reply straight away, but shifted and sighed. “Next time will be better, little bird,” he said after a while.

“It was good,” she said, turning towards him. He looked unconvinced, so she pulled his head down to kiss him. “It felt good.”

“You made a fool of me. Between your legs I was little more than a green boy.”

“It felt good,” she said again, then turned back to the window and leaned against him again, a little closer this time. He wrapped his arms around her, and as they brushed against her breasts, she let out a little moan. Sandor froze.

“Are you hurting?”

“No,” she said, resisting the sudden need to rub the cheeks of her bottom against him. The pounding between her legs was returning, and to her own surprise, she took a hold of his hand and guided it to cup her breast. He made a low noise, then carefully caressed her until her nipple stiffened. With a satisfied hum, he traced the bud with his fingertips before moving to her other breast.

“How long must we wait before...” she said.

“Before what?”

“Next time.”

He did not answer, but instead moved closer, and as she felt his stiffening manhood against her hip, she gasped. Reaching behind her, she felt the warm length with her fingers for the first time. At her touch, it jumped slightly, and Sandor hissed, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her towards the bed again. She saw the determined look in his eyes and could not help but smile, but when he laid her down on her back and clambered up after her, she stayed him with a hand on his chest.

“I want to see you,” she said. “May I?”

He chuckled softly. “You can do whatever you want, little bird,” he said, and sat back on his heels.

“Could you... lie on your back?”

In the dim light from the window, she could see that he raised his good eyebrow in question before lying down next to her. She sat up and cursed herself for putting the lights out earlier. The moon was not yet up and the room was all blacks, greys and dull silvers. His shapes were visible, though, and she ran her fingers through his chest hair, just like she had wanted earlier. Here and there the skin was uneven and hairless - the scars of hundreds of battles, and one way or another, he had won them all. She let her hand travel down his side, hip and leg, at first avoiding the mass of coarse hair at his groin and instead felt the ridges of the hardened tissue that marked the injury that had nearly killed him. Her chest tightened at the thought, and she sent a prayer of thanks to any gods listening that he had lived.

Then she looked at his manhood where it rested, half-aroused and pale against the dark curls between his legs, and she felt a shiver shooting through her belly. Carefully, she reached out and touched it. Again, it twitched under her fingers, sending another jolt through her. She gripped it gently and heard Sandor inhale sharply, and against her palm she felt a rushing sensation. For a second, she thought he would spill his seed once more, but he simply groaned and chuckled again. She felt his hand on her hip, tugging lightly at her, and she let him help her straddle him. At first she was reluctant to sit down and poised on her knees she hovered just above him, legs spread wide by his muscular thighs. Then he took himself in hand and nudged against her, knowingly or not touching that sensitive bud at the top of her lips. She couldn’t help but yelp and push her hips down in response. 

Sandor groaned again, followed by a dark laugh. “Little bird, has no one told you that the marriage bed is supposed to be painful and bloody?”

“They have,” she said, panting. She thought of Michaela the apprentice seamstress and the look of pity in her eyes. “They were wrong. About many things.”

She put her hand on his, and together they guided him inside her. Slowly, she lowered herself down and although this time it felt easier, she was so sensitive and sore that she had to bite her lip to keep herself from wincing, wavering between pain and pleasure. As she finally rested against him fully, she let out a slow sigh, then sat back. Sandor reached out to grasp her hips, and when she moved slightly under his touch, he grunted and swore.

“What are you doing to me, Sansa?” he said, voice heavy with desire, and she felt a little thrill of satisfaction.

She put her hands on his, urging him to grip her harder, to move down to caress her curves and then began rocking with small, slow motions. The slight friction was pleasant, and she followed his lead as he kneaded her hips, thighs and cheeks with a firm, slow rhythm. He reached up to caress a breast, and she leaned into his touch, moaning at the feeling of his rough palm against her skin.

“Does that feel good?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes,” she managed, and as his touches became firmer, the noises that escaped her lips grew louder.

Her body was tingling, her skin prickling with shivers of pleasure, but something was missing. She tried grinding her hips down further, and when the swollen bud above her folds connected with his skin, she gasped. The touch was too light, though - she was craving something else. She put her hands on Sandor’s chest and pushed herself up, letting him slide out slowly. He made a disappointed noise, but when she sat down once more and rubbed herself against him, he tensed and drew a sharp breath. Mimicking his movements when he had still been half dressed, she let herself slide over him. The sensation was incredible, and a spasm went though her thighs. Grabbing his hands, she twined her fingers with his and pushed them back until she was resting on her arms, pressing his hands down into the mattress and trapping him beneath her. She ground against him again, and he grunted, squeezing her hands hard. Her hips found a rhythm and she circled his stiffness while he pushed himself against her. Soon, he was tossing his head from side to side, and her motions were becoming erratic, jerky. She was close, so close, but now she felt empty. She wanted him inside her and underneath her at the same time. She knew there was something she could do, but would she dare...?

“Sansa. _Sansa_.” She snapped her head up to look at him, but his eyes were closed, his neck arched back. “I can’t–” he said and then groaned desperately.

Quickly, she sat back up and grabbed him, sheathing him in a heartbeat. _Oh gods_ , she thought. _Oh gods, oh gods_. She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her mound, meeting it with her hips again and again until she finally fell into her release, moaning over and over as she clenched around him. 

As the waves abated, she felt how weak her legs were, how exhausted she was. She slumped down on his chest. They were both heaving, and she could feel her hair clinging to her back. He must have come again, she thought, but she had been so wrapped up in her own pleasure that it had passed her by. She felt his fingers lightly brushing over her shoulder and down her side.

“You made good on your promise,” she murmured. 

His hand went still and he was quiet for a while. Then he snorted softly when he realised what she meant. “I’ll be careful about making that same promise again.”

A little while later, when she could feel herself drifting towards sleep she thought back on the night, on the bedding ceremony, on the feast, on the vows exchanged before the heart tree. She was sore, that she had to admit, but aside from that, there was not a thing about this day that had happened the way it was supposed to. 


End file.
